


Hide and Seek, a Sherlock Fanfic

by DearSherlock



Series: Sherlock - Adriane Woodford [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Coercion, F/M, Het, Manipulation, Mild Language, Restraint, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearSherlock/pseuds/DearSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As I am winding down at work and beginning to think about going home, a text arrives. “Hide and seek. All of London. You have a ten minute head start. Dinner is on the loser. Two hours. SH." At first I think he must be joking. After a minute, another text comes in.<br/>“One. SH."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.

A/N: Good morning everyone. Have a bit of fluff.

 

\--ooOoo--

 

Dinner is not quite what I expected. To be fair, Phil tries his best, but it is clear from very early on that what I am trying to tell him is freaking him out. I don’t even have to go into any of my personal history. I tell him what I did last night, or at least an edited version of the facts. I can see he doesn’t really believe me, so in the end I take the bandages off my wrists.  
  
His reaction is predictably shocked, but he doesn’t seem to be able to move on from it and keeps asking why I would let anyone do such a thing, and how anyone could even think of doing something like that in the first place. There are words that he doesn’t say but which I can feel hovering at the edge of the conversation. I’ve heard them before – abuse, perversion, and worse.

In the end, I just say, “Look, it’s what I do, OK. It doesn’t happen very often. And I am in no way ashamed of it. Somebody is going to be convicted of a violent crime partly because I did this, and I’m proud of that.”  
  
Unfortunately, I can see there is no use to explain any more. I would like to tell him why I do this in the first place, what happened to me in the past, how this is helping me get out of a cycle of abusive relationships, how it is making me stronger. I leave it. I doubt Phil could cope with any of it. He goes home early.  
  
I finish the bottle of wine I got for the occasion on my own. All I can think is how I want to be back at Baker Street, where at least I feel that whatever I am is acceptable and even useful. Because I have nothing better to do and am feeling sorry for myself I move onto the next bottle. Then, in a drunken haze, I send Sherlock a long and stupid text which may or may not have included references to snogging. He is quick to reply.  
  
“You are drunk, Adriane. Go to sleep. SH.”  
  
I decide to cut my losses and go to bed.  
  
I regret all of it when I wake up with a thumping headache in the morning. It takes me a while to remember what happened, but then I spend a frantic twenty minutes looking for my phone, which I find back under the sofa. I check my sent messages. The folder is empty, and on checking my settings I find I never asked the thing to save them. I can’t quite remember what I actually said in my text. I am quietly dying of embarrassment. There’s nothing for it. I send the text.  
  
“Did I send you something inexcusable last night? A.”  
  
It doesn’t take him long to respond.  
  
“Yes. SH.”  
  
I groan. I’m glad I am halfway across London, and not having to endure this face to face.  
  
“Can we pretend that never happened? A.”  
  
“Yes. SH.”  
  
I guess he is probably as happy as I am to forget the whole episode. I resolve to stop drinking.

\----oooOOOooo----

A number of weeks go by. Work and routine take over and that’s fine. I notice Phil is avoiding me but I can’t get excited about it. After all, if he can’t accept me as I am there really isn’t any point. I am vaguely worried that he might start spreading rumours at work, but at least he has the decency to keep what I have told him to himself.  
  
On Thursday night I get a text from a number I don’t recognise.  
  
“Just to let you know I am away on a course tomorrow and Sherlock is bored. Don’t let him do anything stupid to you while I’m not there. JW.”  
  
John, I realise. I save the number down in my phone in case I need it, then text him back a thank you. It was nice of him to let me know, but I’m not really worried. If Sherlock hasn’t got a case on I’m sure he won’t need my services.  
  
Friday shows just how wrong I can be. As I am winding down at work and beginning to think about going home, a text arrives.  
  
“Hide and seek. All of London. You have a ten minute head start. Dinner is on the loser. Two hours. SH."  
  
At first I think he must be joking. After a minute, another text comes in.  
  
“One. SH.”  
  
With it is a picture of the Criterion restaurant. I’ve been past it, it’s a posh place where ultra cool people go. I have nothing I could wear. It is also way beyond my budget. I am beginning to panic. I text back.  
  
“Sherlock, I am skint. I could never afford that place. A.”  
  
His response is quick.

“Two. UCL pays its staff on the 28th of each month, which was two days ago. I very much doubt it. SH.”  
  
I haven’t moved yet, and try once more.  
  
“I am just about covering the rent. I can’t afford it. A.”  
  
“Three. Then I suggest you hide well. SH.”  
  
I nearly swear out loud. He knows full well that I could never pass up the chance of what is effectively a date. It is an offer that might never appear again. On the other hand, he must also know that this place is well beyond my budget. I have no option but to play the game. I pack my bag in a rush and say a hurried goodbye to everyone in the lab. As I am walking towards the main reception, another text arrives.  
  
“Four. I hope you are not still at work. That would be too easy. SH.”  
  
I’m running now. I have no idea where to go. On an impulse I head towards the nearest tube station. As I am on the escalator, another text comes in.  
  
“Five. I will cover the drinks if you make it through one hour. SH.”  
  
I guess that’s some kind of concession. I get the cheapest day ticket and jump on a random train. It’s a Circle line service, which means that at least I will stay in Zone 1. I find a place to sit down and try to catch my breath as the train pulls away. My phone goes off with another text.  
  
“Six. SH.”  
  
I look on the tube map. I’m not sure whether to just stay in the tube circuit. I figure the chances of him working out exactly which train I’m on should be pretty slim. As I try to work out if I would have to change at all or whether I could just stay on this train and go around in circles, another text arrives,  
  
“Seven. I will consider staying on the tube as cheating. SH.”  
  
Well, that rules that option out. I guess I’ve been pretty obvious so far, but I haven’t really had time to collect my thoughts. I decide to get off at the next station, and walk instead. After a minute or so the train stops. I get off just as the next message comes in.  
  
“Eight. SH.”  
  
I’ve got off at Monument. I don’t know the area all that well, but I can see some shops on the left at King William Street, and there are also some coffee shops on Cannon Street. Maybe I can just hide out in one of them for a while. I can’t see how he could find me in two hours in the middle of London with nothing to go on anyway. As I leave the station, another text comes in.  
  
“Nine. SH.”  
  
I’m not quite so nervous now. I have convinced myself that I’ve done pretty well, and that Sherlock’s reference to the tube can only have been a bluff. While I make my way down Cannon Street the next text arrives.  
  
“Ten. Coming, ready or not. SH.”  
  
 _Two hours_ , I think, _this should be easy_. I keep walking up the road, past McDonald’s, and stop at the first coffee shop. I order a coffee and sit down in a quiet corner, where I can look out of the window. The place is empty at this time of the day, with everyone heading home for the weekend. There are a few office girls gossiping at one of the tables, and an old guy on his own in the opposite corner. I drink my coffee slowly, making the most of the time it is gaining me. My head is a bit calmer now that Sherlock’s countdown has finished. I wonder how long it will really take for him to find me, if I just keep moving about every so often. London is such a big place, I could be anywhere.  
  
I look on my watch before I leave the coffee shop. Twenty minutes have passed. Not bad, I think, as I cross the road towards the Thames. I really don’t know the area at all, it’s all big office buildings, but I have a good idea where the river is and I fancy having a look at it. It’s a good a place as any, I reckon. There is nobody about, all the office workers having gone home, and everything is quiet away from the busy traffic on Cannon Street.  
  
I am passing between two large office blocks when somebody steps out in front of me. It’s a tall bloke, dressed in a dirty hoody and ripped jeans. He looks pretty muscular. I suddenly realise that wandering around a deserted office area on my own might not have been such a good idea. I look around me, but I am very much alone. Even the front desks in the offices are empty. I wonder if there is any CCTV recording this.

 “That’s far enough, I think,” he says.  
  
 _Run_ , I think, and I turn around. At the same moment another man, older than the first, steps out from behind the building at the side of me and blocks my way going back. I hesitate, not sure where to run. I seem to have seen him before, but I haven’t got too much time to think about it. My moment of indecision has cost me dearly as I feel both my arms being grabbed from behind and pulled up.  
  
Before I have a chance to call for help the man in front of me has covered my mouth with what looks like a grubby scarf and tied it behind my head. The taste of the thing is disgusting and I try not to think about what might be on it.  
  
They forcibly walk me into a side alley. I try to struggle free, but all that happens is that my arms are forced further upwards until I fear that something might get dislocated. I am trying hard not to panic, and I can feel myself getting angry.  
  
When we get halfway into the alleyway they stop, and the taller of the two ties my arms behind my back with what feels like a tie wrap. Then he tightens the knot on the scarf until I can barely move my mouth. Finally he walks in front of me and hooks one of his legs around my ankles, efficiently pulling my legs out from under me. He’s holding onto me as I sink to the floor. It’s a chance at least – I kick out with all the force I can muster and catch him squarely on the upper leg. He lets out a grunt as I think, _Should have aimed higher_.  
  
I don’t get a second chance, as he kneels down on my thighs with one leg and ties my ankles together. Then he rolls me onto my side, forces my legs upwards behind me, and ties my arms and legs together. Other than my head I can’t move anything anymore. The position is hurting my back, and I lie motionless to try and alleviate the pain.  
  
The men sit down either side of me. They don’t seem to have any further plans, and I am wondering what is going on. I was expecting them to rifle me for my money or my phone, at least, but they seem content to just sit and wait. One of the men is playing on his phone, the other is just sitting humming to himself. The weirdness of the whole situation is getting to me. I’m wondering how Sherlock is going to find me now. I give the ties around my wrists a tentative struggle, trying to think what I can do. There is no getting out and I have to give up after a moment.  
  
I’m still angry, firstly with myself for walking into a trap, secondly with Sherlock for forcing me into this situation in the first place. I wonder what will happen to me, and I try to suppress the memories of that horror night some five months ago when I ended up halfway across Norfolk. To stop myself from panicking I focus on my breathing, and look at my captors.  
  
“Should be here any moment,” the taller of the men says, when a text arrives on his phone. His companion answers, “Good.”  
  
I wonder who they are referring to. They don’t say anything else, though. I am looking at the elder of the two men from where I am lying, and I realise that I did see him before. He was in the coffee shop. I am just beginning to put two and two together when a pair of very familiar black shoes appears in front of my face.  
  
“Found you,” Sherlock says.  
  
Thankfully the gag smothers most of the obscenities as my fear turns to anger in an instant. I can just about turn my head so I can look at him, and his smug expression only makes it worse. I don’t know how he organised this, but I cannot contain my rage.  
  
After a few minutes he says, “When you have finished with that I will take the gag off. I might even explain.”  
  
I calm myself down only with the promise that I will keep some choice words back for when the thing comes off, and stop swearing. He just looks at me, raises an eyebrow and then turns to the old man. Not so easily fooled, I should know that by now.  
  
“There you go, Stitch. The tying up may have been a little excessive. Good to see you took some notice of John’s instructions though.” He passes the man what looks like a fifty pound note. The man grunts.  
  
“I wasn’t going to miss out on fifty quid,” he says.  
  
Sherlock says, “Clearly,” as he kneels down to have a look at me. I am still glaring at him, but he is ignoring me and just concentrating on the ties. He is running his fingers underneath to check how tight they are.  
  
“Did you do these, Djingo?” he asks the man on my right.  
  
The man says, “Yeah. Nearly got kicked inna fork for the pleasure.”  
  
Sherlock looks at him, then quickly over to me. He almost looks impressed. I continue to glare. On a better day I will take it as a compliment.  
  
Sherlock stands up. “Thank you, gentlemen, neat work. That’ll be all.”  
  
The men get up and walk off. Sherlock stays behind, looking down on me with an expression of amusement. He seems in no hurry. “Are you done?” he says after a while.  
  
It’s not like I have much choice in the matter. I nod. He kneels down again and undoes the scarf.  
  
“Forty-five minutes,” he says. “I believe the drinks are on you.”  
  
I don’t trust myself not to swear so I say nothing. Sherlock produces a pair of clippers and cuts through the ties. I sit up and rub some circulation back into my arms.  
  
“What was that?” I finally manage to say.  
  
He’s got up again and is slowly pacing about. “Homeless network,” he says, looking very smug about it. “They’re invaluable as a source of information. And even more useful since John gave a handful of them some training on restraining techniques. But they do need practice every so often.”  
  
I am still fuming. “You cheated,” I say.  
  
“No,” he says, “I used the tools at my disposal to find you. That isn’t cheating.”  
  
“Sherlock, I was terrified.”  
  
He shrugs. “You were never in any danger. They didn’t even hurt you. John’s trained them well.”  
  
I really can’t get this through to him. I keep looking for some sign that he’s joking, but he is clearly serious. As far as he is concerned, this was a useful training exercise, a diversion, and possibly a fun game. The fact that I ended up fearing for my life is irrelevant.  
  
“They could have done anything to me,” I say.  
  
“No. I know where to find them, and they are aware of that,” he answers.  
  
Coming from anyone else, that might be an empty threat. But I remember all too well how he dealt with the men who abducted me some months ago. I realise that in an odd way he is being protective, even though it really doesn’t seem like it sometimes. I wonder what his reputation is like with the homeless.  
  
“Well,” he says when it becomes obvious that I am not going to say any more. “Shall we go somewhere with a little more decorum?”  
  
In my anger I had forgotten about dinner. “You’re really going to go through with this, aren’t you?” I ask. I’m not looking forward to going out somewhere posh, even though I’m hungry.  
  
“I won the game,” he says. That seems to conclude the argument.  
  
“Sherlock, the Criterion is an amazingly hip place. I don’t even have anything to wear.”  
  
“Wrong,” he says, “you have a very nice black dress with a blue jacket that John bought you. I suggest we go and get it.”  
  
I get up and brush myself off. Sherlock is patiently waiting for me to sort myself out. “Shall we?” he says when I finish.  
  
I’m still angry, but he’s being all charm now. We walk back to Cannon Street and he hails a cab. He lets me in first and gives my address to the driver. Then he settles himself into the seat and looks at me.  
  
“Well?”  
  
I give him a blank look. “Well what?”  
  
“I’m not going to apologise, Adriane. It was a fair game. I won. Are you going to spend the rest of the evening angry with me?”  
  
I sigh, and say, “Probably.” I can’t seem put much conviction behind it, though.  
  
He gives me a brief smile, and says, “Excellent.”  
  
It takes me a while to sort myself out when we get to my flat, but I think I look presentable when I finish. Sherlock has installed himself on my sofa and is looking through my collection of magazines. “I can’t believe you read this stuff. How can you fill your mind with this rubbish?” he says as I come out of the bathroom.  
  
“Trust me, it doesn’t take up much space in my head,” I say.  
  
He rolls his eyes, and says, “But it's a waste of time.”  
  
I look at him. It surprises me a little that I am not feeling the immense awe anymore that I had when I first met him. Too much water under the bridge, I guess. I wouldn’t ever underestimate him, but at least I feel I can talk freely.  
  
“You could say that about a lot of things, Sherlock. Like dinner. We could just order a pizza.”  
  
He gets up. “That,” he says with a glint in his eye, “would be too easy."  
  
The Criterion is everything it is made out to be. It’s a fabulous building just to look at, and I have to stop myself staring at the architecture. The guests in the restaurant are nearly as illustrious as the surroundings. There are one or two very famous faces, and many that I swear I have seen somewhere before. I feel completely out of place, but Sherlock seems quite at home.  
  
We order. Sherlock insists on starters. Seeing as how he is determined to get the most out of this, I decide to go for the bankruptcy option and just order what I feel like. The wine list gives me a bit of a shock, but thankfully Sherlock orders something reasonable. I resolve to forget about the cost and enjoy myself. After all, this might be the only chance I ever get at this.  
  
If I was nervous about spending an evening with someone who has perfected being silent as an art form, I should not have worried. Whether he feels responsible or is just in a good mood, Sherlock is on his most charming form. We talk chemistry for awhile, and for once I feel like I can hold my own. Then he spends some time unravelling the lives of some of the guests around us. He doesn’t pick the celebrities, saying that they are too obvious, but concentrates on the ordinary visitors.  
  
The married man taking his mistress out for dinner, making polite conversation with his wife on his mobile phone the whole time. The young girl taking her new boyfriend on an expensive birthday treat, desperate to impress. The group of single girls out on a hen night, even I could have told that. But then what I didn’t see is the jealousy between the bride and her bridesmaid, who is already trying to start an affair with the groom behind her back; the gay friend who has had a crush on the bride for years and is now seeing her hopes dashed; the awkward childhood friend, just returned from a year in America, who is has been asked along out of sympathy.  
  
I admire his eye for detail, the way he picks up clues in the wearing of a ring, a turn of phrase, subconscious movements, body language. For somebody who seems so emotionally detached he has an acute eye for the human condition, the things that drive people, their hopes and dreams, their fatal flaws, the silly quirks. It makes me wonder why it is so hard for him to show these emotions himself, why he refuses to love or be loved, what he is so afraid of.  
  
I consider asking him straight out, but thankfully I haven’t drunk that much yet and common sense prevails. As I listen to him it strikes me though that in his mind nothing could be worth the risk of clouding his reasoning, the thing that defines him. Anything that might come between him and his ability for analytical thought has to be a clear threat. It also occurs to me that with his level of understanding it would almost be silly to indulge in any emotional involvement, that it would never pass his constant self-analysis. An evening like this is easy, he can put on the charm like a disguise, but anything beyond that is unthinkable to him. I wonder how John has managed to break through that.  
  
I must have gone quiet, because those ice-blue eyes are on me now. “Sorry,” I say, “I was going to ask you something.”  
  
“Yes,” he says. He’s quiet for a moment, then continues, “But you have worked it out for yourself.”  
  
I nod, and say, “John is a very lucky man.” He doesn’t answer that.  
  
We finish our main course, which is excellent. I had decided to skip dessert, but when the menu arrives I change my mind and pick something extremely chocolatey. Sherlock looks at me briefly, and says, “I do believe UCL are paying you too much.”  
  
I shrug and say, “I don’t think I’ll be back here anytime soon. Might as well make the most of it.”  
  
The wine is beginning to make me giggly and I decide to stop drinking before I do or say something stupid.  “See, I’m working on my self control,” I say.  
  
Sherlock just raises an eyebrow. Then he says, “You didn’t panic when Stitch and Djingo grabbed you and tied you up. Why not? You had every reason to.”  
  
The question takes me aback a little, it really hadn’t occurred to me.  
  
“I don’t know,” I say in the end. “I just got really angry instead.”  
  
“So I noticed,” he says with a wry smile, and then, “Good.”  
  
I pick up the bill when we finish, and try not to flinch. I’m sure he’s done the mental maths anyway, and to be honest I should have done as well. As I pay I wonder if it was worth it, and then decide that on balance it was. I’ve had a really good time.  
  
Outside, Sherlock hails a taxi and lets me get in. He pays the driver in advance, then says through the open door, “Good night Adriane. Thank you for dinner.”  
  
 _Thank you for playing with me,_ I think, and _thank you for draining my bank balance_. However, I just say, “Good night, Sherlock.”  
  
He gives me a knowing look as he closes the door. I wonder how much of those last thoughts he picked up on. Knowing him, probably all of them.  
  
Halfway home, I receive a text.  
  
“I hope you are aware that John’s course runs over four weeks. SH.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I am winding down at work and beginning to think about going home, a text arrives. “Hide and seek. All of London. You have a ten minute head start. Dinner is on the loser. Two hours. SH." At first I think he must be joking. After a minute, another text comes in.  
> “One. SH."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.
> 
> A/N: The fluff continues. I promise I'm going to be serious again at some point.

The following Friday I am half expecting a text at the end of the work day, but nothing happens. _He’s probably got a case on,_ I think and make my way home. It’s a shame, because I have had all week to get a plan together and I even took some stuff with me to help me carry it out. It’s getting dark outside and I have just flopped on the sofa, doing some channel surfing and wondering what to have for dinner when my phone beeps.  
  
“Hide and Seek. Same rules. Two hours. You have ten minutes. SH.”  
  
I groan at the terrible timing. I have switched off for the week now, I really don’t fancy the idea of getting going again. I text him back.  
  
“If you suggest the Criterion again I am not playing. A.”  
  
Shortly a text comes back.  
  
“One. SH.”  
  
There is an image attached. It is of a small bistro. “Angelo’s,” it says on the sign. It doesn’t look all that expensive, but in London looks can be deceiving. I could look up their menu and check, but then I’d be wasting time. I grab my rucksack and make my way out of the flat. While walking, I send another text.  
  
“No homeless network. A.”  
  
The return text comes in on the dot.  
  
“Two. Fine. SH.”  
  
 _That should make it a bit harder_ , I think. Maybe I’ll stay hidden long enough to at least not have to pay for drinks. After last week I am not going to make any assumptions though, so I decide to go with the plan I had made earlier. I start to walk over to Russell square tube station. It will probably take me the whole countdown to get there from my flat, but at least I know what I am doing now rather than making it up as I go along. The texts keep coming in on the minute, but without any further comments. I can feel my own tension mounting as he gets to eight, then nine. _It’s just a game_ , I keep telling myself, but after the total humiliation of last week I am determined to do better. As I enter the station, my phone beeps one last time.  
  
“Ten. Coming, ready or not. SH.”  
  
I try not to let it get to me, to stay calm. Without the homeless network, it won’t be so easy to trace me. I sit down on a seat close to the door and wait, counting down the stations until we get to Hyde Park Corner. _That takes care of the first fifteen minutes_ , I think.  
  
It is completely dark when I get outside the tube station. That’s not a problem, in fact I am hoping it will help me. I make my way into Hyde Park. It is a place that I know well, many happy hours spent there with the family when I was young. My brothers and I had many games of hide and seek here, and I am convinced I must have the advantage of experience. There are some excellent places to hide.   
  
I walk towards the Serpentine. There’s a very nice coffee house there and I briefly consider the idea of just hiding in there. Too obvious, I guess. There’s an old steam engine on display here, too, and that seems as good a place of any to sit for a while. I still think that moving regularly is my best option. I sit with my back against one of the pillars of the building it is displayed in, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I look around me, thinking about my next move. It is still quite busy where I am, but the rest of the park is getting quiet now, just as I had hoped. I haven’t been sitting down for more than five minutes when a text comes in.  
  
“Do you know how many Internet sites there are that will give you the exact location of a person’s mobile phone if you pay them enough? SH.”  
  
I jump. _Stupid_. I can’t believe I have been that obvious. I frantically try to switch the thing off but I am fumbling. It’s lucky I don’t manage it straight away, as it works out. Just as I have got to the right button to start switching off, another text arrives.  
  
“I am on the opposite side of Hyde Park. I’m going to count to ten. Do yourself a favour and give me a challenge. SH.”  
  
That’s it, I am switching it off, now.   
  
I get off the bench and start running along the Serpentine. I can’t get very far in a count of ten, and it won’t take him all that long to cross the park. Five, ten minutes I guess, to get away from here and hide. There aren’t many people about now, just the odd dog owner and the unavoidable joggers dressed in dayglo. In the distance I can see a couple of policemen walking through the park.

I slow to a walk, not wanting to be conspicuous, not wanting to look like I am running away from something. Sherlock would have a field day if he found me being interrogated by the police. Maybe I should have dressed in dayglo running gear, because this is costing me time.   
  
There are a couple of old buildings just to the north of here where the Royal Parks offices are, and I know there are a lot of big trees that we used to hide amongst there. If I remember well a few of them are quite easy to climb, unless the town council have done any tree surgery in the intervening years. As soon as the police are out of sight I start running again, towards the copse. I may just have enough time.   
  
I am slightly disorientated in the dark, but it doesn’t take me more than a few minutes to find the place I was looking for. The trees are still there. I remember a particular one, an impressive London plane, had some branches that went right down to the ground. I look for it, conscious that I must be running out of time. Either the council have done some work or I am not in the right place, because I can’t find it. In the end I settle on an old sycamore. The lowest branch is just out of my reach, but I congratulate myself on being prepared for once. I take the rope out of my bag and throw it over. The loop at the other end helps me to secure it nearly instantly, and I make my way up the trunk of the tree using the knots along the rope for handholds.  
  
It’s been some time since I last climbed a tree but at least I had lots of practice when I was younger. Even as a kid I was always hanging out with the big boys, looking for the adrenaline rush, forever getting into one kind of trouble or another. _Nothing much has changed there then_ , I think, as I manage to get my leg over the branch with some effort. I am much more unfit than I thought, but at least I have managed to get up.

I quickly pull the rope in after me and untie it. Then I make my way up the branches until I am as far up as I dare to go. I make myself as comfortable as possible, and wait. It’s a clear night, and once my eyes have become adjusted to the darkness I find I can see quite a lot by the light of the half moon that is shining through the trees.  
  
Ten minutes or so pass. I daren’t switch my phone on to check the time, and it is too dark to read my watch. I’m beginning to wonder whether I have managed to pass the one hour mark yet when I hear a noise in the direction of the path that I came from. Somebody is coming this way. I can see the light of a torch moving around the trees in the distance in a methodical fashion. I can’t make out the person holding it yet, but I don’t think I need to see to guess who it is.  
  
As the light gets closer I can make out a tall figure in a long coat, dark hair, pale skin. He is moving quickly towards the tree I am in, his face ducking close towards the ground every so often as he stops to examine something, magnifying glass in one hand, torch in the other. Now and again he straightens up and looks at the trees ahead. I try to blend into the tree trunk. At this pace, he will be here in less than a minute. I watch, fascinated, as he makes his way near enough straight to my tree.  
  
Suddenly there is a shout from further away. Sherlock straightens up and turns round to look behind him. He is only eight metres or so from where I am now. The two policemen I saw earlier are heading towards him, looking serious. Even from where I am sitting I can hear Sherlock sigh.   
  
“Good evening sir,” one of the policemen says, “is there anything we can help you with?”  
  
Sherlock’s answer is curt, and has barbs on it. “No.”  
  
The policemen are dumbfounded for a moment. Obviously this is not the reaction they expected. The second policeman tries again. “What he meant, sir, is whether there is a reason you are out here looking for something with a torch?”  
  
Sherlock is stoic. “Yes.”  
  
I am trying not to giggle. It would give the whole game away, and I’m not sure Sherlock would appreciate the joke. I’m wondering how he is going to get out of this. The policemen are looking at each other a little uncertainly. The first one has another go.  
  
“You must understand that it is our duty to make sure that you are not involved in anything… ehm… illegal, sir.”   
  
Sherlock just gives them a disdainful stare. Then he reaches into his coat and takes something out of his inside pocket. I can’t see what it is, but he holds it up for the two policemen to look at. The look of controlled dismay on their faces is a picture.  
  
“Gentlemen, unless you want me to have a word with your reporting officer about endangering a covert operation, I suggest you refrain from interfering any further,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Sorry, Detective Inspector, we didn’t realise,” says the first officer. He looks extremely uncomfortable.  
  
Sherlock gives them a quick look over. Then he says to the first police officer, “Also, if I were you I would reread the regulations about accepting gifts from witnesses. “  
  
The dismay on the face of the first officer changes into horror. He mumbles something unintelligible, and then quickly turns around and walks back to the path, followed by his colleague. Sherlock watches them go, smiling briefly to himself.  
  
When they are out of sight he turns round again and looks straight up at the tree I am sitting in. His eyes find mine without hesitation.  
  
“I suppose you thought that was funny.”  
  
 _How does he do it,_ is all I can really think.   
  
He’s still looking up at me, and he points at where I am and says, “It’s not a bad spot, but you’re against the light.”  
  
I make my way slowly down the tree. All in all I don’t think I have done very well today. When I get to the lowest branch I let myself dangle for a moment before dropping to the floor. Sherlock is watching my progress. When I get to the ground, he looks at me with a slight frown.  
  
“You climbed a tree.”   
  
“Sherlock, I grew up with two older brothers. There’s stuff you learn.”  
  
He looks closely at the trunk of the tree, then at the branch I have just dropped off from.  
  
“With a rope. You took a rope.”  
  
I find his surprise amusing. It is as if he was expecting me to have no initiative at all.  
  
“I did have a week to think about it. Even my slow brain is able to come up with a plan in that amount of time.”  
  
He considers this a second and then says, “Hm. Even so, fifty minutes. Really not very good, considering that included five minutes of police interference. And I actually knew exactly where you were for about forty of those.”  
  
I don’t have very much to say to that. The phone thing really was stupid.   
  
“Sorry,” I say, “brain freeze.”  
  
“Yes,” he says. I didn’t really want him to agree with me.  
  
There’s something that I still don’t get. “Sherlock, Detective Inspector is a police rank. You’re not police,” I say.  
  
He is still looking at me, and his expression doesn’t change apart from a slight hint of a smile. “Clearly.”  
  
He’s not going to answer that one, then. I am beginning to worry that my useless hiding has earned me an evening with a monosyllabic companion. Not something I look forward to. I decide to try once more.  
  
“How did you know I was going to be in the trees, though?”  
  
He weighs up whether to answer this or not. In the end, it seems his need to show off wins. And no doubt he also sees it as an opportunity to rub in quite how rubbish I have been tonight.  
  
“All week you have gone to work wearing smart blue and black office wear, in black ankle boots with a heel, and carrying a small shoulder bag. Today you went in wearing baggy greens and browns, and while it’s not quite camouflage the fact that you were also wearing a pair of trainers and carrying a rucksack told me enough to know that you were planning to hide somewhere natural, and possibly thinking of doing something athletic. Pair that with the fact that you left the tube at Hyde Park Corner, which is the closest station to the area with the highest density of trees in Hyde Park and it becomes obvious.  
  
I knew you had stopped at the edge of the Serpentine. All I had to do was walk from there to the place where you had left the path and follow the track. Your trainers leave quite a distinctive footprint. I didn’t bother following the little detour that you took looking for the most suitable tree, as by that time I had already spotted you. If it hadn’t been for the police I would have found you within seven minutes of finishing my count.”   
  
I didn’t really take in much of the last half of that as I got stuck on the first bit.  
  
“You’ve been watching me at work,” I say, after I have managed to recover my composure. This is beginning to creep me out.  
  
“I have been bored, Adriane,” he says.  
  
“Is this something that happens regularly?” I ask.  
  
“Only when I’m bored,” he says. I think he can tell I didn’t really appreciate the wisecrack that time.  
  
“You’re not all that interesting. Most of the stuff you do is pretty routine. Usually I follow Lestrade.”   
  
I manage to bite back an obscenity. He hasn’t finished, though.  
  
“I notice Phil is still avoiding you. He’s been doing that for weeks.”  
  
All I can do is stare. For the moment, I have lost all capacity for cohesive thought. I am not sure what I can say that will make him understand just how disturbing I find this.  
  
“Sherlock, you can’t do that,” I finally manage. It isn’t enough, I know that as soon as the words leave my mouth.  
  
He looks at me blankly. “Why not? You get recorded on CCTV a hundred times a day. You have no idea who watches the footage, and you don’t even think about that.”  
  
There’s no denying the logic. I just feel very uncomfortable about it.  
  
“I bear no ill intent, Adriane.” He says. “It’s not like I interfere with your work.”  
  
I shake my head, “What? No. That’s not the point. I just find it...” _freaky,_ I think, but I remember Sally Donovan’s use of the word. “…very uncomfortable,” I say.  
  
Sherlock shrugs. “Not really my problem. I find it useful practice.” He seems to think that concludes the discussion.   
  
“You need to get changed. I doubt even Angelo would let you in looking like that,” he says, giving me a look of plain disapproval. I check myself. Even in the darkness I can see I look a mess, and I’m probably covered in green smudges. There’s twigs in my hair, too. I am sure under his coat Sherlock is impeccably dressed as always, every crease ironed to perfection, and his shoes never picked up any mud this evening. The thought is probably written all over my face, because he gives me a quick superior smile and says, “Let’s go.”  
  
We get a taxi back to my flat. It’s a quiet drive. I have nothing to say and am still getting to grips with what he has told me. Sherlock just looks out of the window, letting me stew. We get to the flat and I have a shower and get changed. When I come out of the bathroom, I find Sherlock back in my kitchen with his head in the fridge. He re-emerges holding a bowl of roast chicken that was going to be lunch tomorrow, and starts eating it _._  
  
 _Just make yourself at home_ , I think, but I say, “I thought we were going out for dinner.” I’m trying not to sound like my mum.  
  
Sherlock shrugs and puts another piece of chicken in his mouth, “I’m hungry now.”  
  
He’s looking at me, daring me to say something else. I’m sure he’s making some kind of point, but I decide it’s not worth the argument. “I’m ready,” is all I say.  
  
When we arrive at Angelo’s, the restaurant owner comes straight over. “Ah, Sherlock, I’ll get you your usual table.” Then he looks at me, raises his eyebrows and says, “Oh, _hello_.”   
  
I’m not sure what to make of it. I look at Sherlock for some guidance, but he just walks across to a table in the window. I follow him and sit down. It’s a nice spot, with a view on the street which is still busy with people. Within seconds of us sitting down, the owner is back with two menus.  
  
“Anything you want of course, Sherlock, no charge for you and your pretty date.” Sherlock smirks. The man now looks at me. “He’s a good man, Sherlock. Got me off a murder charge, he did. I am indebted to him forever.”  
  
Sherlock says nothing but just nods. Angelo slaps him on the back, “I’ll get you a candle.”  
  
Sherlock says nothing, looking out of the window. He hasn’t even looked at his menu. In fact, he hasn’t said more than four words since we’ve got into the taxi back at my flat. I’m not sure what is going on. I take a good look at my menu.   
  
“Was he serious, Sherlock, about there being no charge?” I ask.  
  
Sherlock nods, and says, “Hm.”  
  
“Did you know about that? I mean, before you suggested coming here?”  
  
He looks across to me now. “Of course.”  
  
“Oh.” I say. He could have mentioned that before I was getting all worried about the cost of this. He’s still looking at me, but I can’t read him at all.  
  
“If I had told you there really wouldn’t have been any point to the game,” he says, and looks out of the window again.  
  
Angelo comes to take our order, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. I am surprised when Sherlock orders starters, as I expected him to make this a short night. He seems in no mood for any polite conversation. I quickly choose something from the starters list. Angelo pours the wine, and Sherlock picks up his glass and turns towards the window again. I can’t shake the feeling that I have done something wrong. The silence is making me nervous.  
  
“I’m sorry I was rubbish tonight,” I say after a while.   
  
Sherlock takes a moment to register this, but when he does he sits up and turns towards me. He’s looking at me as if he has just noticed I’m there.  
  
“You think I am disappointed,” he says. “I’m not. I was thinking.”  
  
“Oh,” I say. I’m taken aback a bit. “I just thought the phone thing was really stupid.”  
  
He gives me a brief smile. “You’d be surprised how many criminals make the same mistake, Adriane,” he says, “although not very many of them give me their number first.”  
  
“Oh,” I say again. I’m not doing very well tonight. He’s got me off balance again, just when I thought I had some idea of what I was doing. Sherlock has turned back towards the window. I don’t mind this time, it gives me a moment to think.  
  
Dinner is a quiet affair. Sherlock seems quite content to say nothing, and I’m really not intending to open my mouth again to come out with another stupid remark. The food is good though, and I just concentrate on enjoying it. The wine is good, too, and I’m getting quite mellow. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind me staring while he is looking out of the window, so I spend some time studying him. I guess he is not classically good-looking, although I would personally not agree with that. It is the expressions that flit across his face as he is observing the passers-by, forming his own deductions on who they are, that make him fascinating to watch. Even when his face is still there is a restless intelligence to his eyes that shows that his mind is never quiet.   
  
“Do you ever switch off?” it’s out before I have thought about what I’m saying.   
  
He turns and looks at me for a long time before answering, his face serious.   
  
“I used to. It didn’t agree with me.”   
  
I have enough sense not to ask any further. He turns back to the window, but not before moving my wine glass halfway across the table, away from me. I take the hint and order an orange juice.  
  
Sherlock passes on dessert but seems quite happy to wait for me to finish mine. He still hasn’t spoken more than twenty words or so, and has now taken to staring across the room rather than out of the window. Some of the guests are beginning to look decidedly nervous. When I have nearly emptied my plate, he suddenly seems to come back to the here and now.  
  
“Any good?” he asks.  
  
“Sorry, what?” I’m not sure what he’s referring to.  
  
“The food. Was it any good?”  
  
“Yes,” I say, non-plussed. “It was lovely. How was yours?”   
  
He gives me a blank look, “I don’t remember. Did I eat it?”  
  
 _How can he not know?_ I just can’t get my head around the way he operates sometimes. He’s still waiting for me to answer the question.   
  
“Yes,” I say, “I believe you enjoyed it.”  
  
“Oh. Good,” he says.  
  
I decide to ask him the return question.  
  
“Any insights?”  
  
It’s his turn to look confused now. “Pardon?”  
  
“You have been looking out of the window for nearly two hours. I was wondering if you had come to any conclusions,” I say.  
  
He is silent for a while before he answers.   
  
“The fact that Phil still isn’t speaking to you bothers you, even though you pretend that it doesn’t. You like him, he reminds you of your brothers and you are wondering if you could have a relationship with someone like that. You are also still hoping that I will take an interest if you hang around long enough, even though I have made my position perfectly clear to you on a number of occasions. You enjoyed your starters more than your main course, you nearly drank too much, and you are considering hiding in the urban fabric and possibly wear a hoody if we play our game again. Do you want me to continue?”  
  
I am aware I am just blinking at him. I wish I hadn’t asked. Everything he has just said is right, and I realise I have turned bright red. I shake my head, I don’t want to hear any more.  
  
“I thought you were looking out of the window,” I manage after a while.  
  
He gives me a quick look of satisfaction, pleased that he obviously got it all right.  
  
“I could see your reflection perfectly,” he says. “And you’re very easy to read compared to some of _them_ ,” he indicates the rest of the restaurant clientele with a nod. “It’s not so easy reading a mirror image, especially in a window. That’s why I turned around in the end, to confirm my observations on some of the other customers. But it wasn’t necessary for you.”  
  
I am still speechless.  
  
“You could have talked to me. I would have probably told you most of that,” I say after a moment.  
  
“But not all of it,” he says. “In any case, I found it interesting.”  
  
“But how?” I ask. I can’t understand how anyone could work all that out. Even though I am not sure I really want to know, I can’t help but ask.  
  
“Facial expression, mainly,” he says. “That was easy for the food and drink. Some things I picked up earlier though, at Hyde Park. You weren’t all that upset about me watching you at work until I mentioned Phil. Even in the taxi your thoughts kept returning to that, and you weren’t happy about it. You’ve said very clearly before that he isn’t your type, but obviously you do take an interest. He is exactly the kind of person who would have been climbing trees when he was younger. It wasn’t hard to make the connection between your comment about your brothers and your thoughts about Phil after that.”  
  
He looks at me for a reaction. I can’t really say anything. After a moment, he moves on to the next thing on his list.  
  
“Now even John can, and does, interpret the way you look at me, as borne out by his frequent reminders that I am using you, so there really was no skill to that particular observation. I believe you wouldn’t put up with me for this amount of time if you weren’t at least a little bit hopeful that something might still come of it. As for your plans, when looking out of the window you keep paying special attention to people dressed in the more urban fashions tonight. Seeing as how you don’t usually take much notice of fashion at all, I could only conclude that it was connected with tonight’s game. Am I right?”  
  
I can only sigh. “Yes, all of it.”   
  
He nods, satisfied. I can’t be looking very happy. He studies me a moment, then says, “Adriane, I can cure you of your crush on me in less than five minutes. But I’m not sure you’d recover.”  
  
I look at him, bewildered, and not sure if he’s joking. He’s looking quite serious. It seems that in a perverse way he is offering to help me. I have no doubt that he could completely destroy me in that amount of time.   
  
“No,” I say, “Please, no. I can deal with it.”  
  
Sherlock just briefly raises his eyebrows, and says, “Fine. Time to go, I believe.”  
  
I’m glad to get into the taxi on my own this time, and get him out of my head. On the way home, I try to sift through the things he’s said to see if there is anything positive in it, in an attempt to recover some self-esteem. His observations on Phil are spot on, even though I hadn’t really formed the thoughts as clearly as he saw them. It’s also nice to know that John is still sticking up for me. And finally, there is the uncomfortable thought that he is holding back on things he has observed that he thinks I couldn’t deal with. It’s a hard one to turn around, but I guess if he was completely indifferent to me he wouldn’t have restrained himself. I decide to settle on the happy delusion that I am still useful to him.   
  
Next week, if it happens, I will play a better game.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I am winding down at work and beginning to think about going home, a text arrives. “Hide and seek. All of London. You have a ten minute head start. Dinner is on the loser. Two hours. SH." At first I think he must be joking. After a minute, another text comes in.  
> “One. SH."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.
> 
> A/N to this chapter: thank you for sticking with it so far. Have some smut.

During the week Phil comes up to me in the tea room. He gives me an awkward, "Hi."  
  
I say hello, but wait for him to make the first move. After an uncomfortable silence he asks, "How are you?"  
  
I say fine, thank you, and wonder if this is going to get anywhere. Another awkward pause.  
  
"Ehm, listen," he says, "I didn't react very well to what you told me the other day."  
  
"No," I say, "You didn't, really."  
  
I don't really want to push him away, but I am still upset that he has ignored me for such a long time.  
  
"Look, I'm sorry," he says. "It was a lot to take in."  
  
 _You haven't heard anything yet_ , I think. I can't say it though. If he is willing to have another go I will give him a chance. "There's a lot more, Phil," I say. "You might want to have a think about that."  
  
"Maybe you want to come over to mine for dinner on Friday? Then you can talk about it," he says.  
  
"Sorry," I say, "I can't do Friday. I should be ok for Saturday though."  
  
He's grinning at me now.  "Great, Saturday. Thanks."   
  
With that, he's off, looking very pleased with himself. I wonder how long he had been hyping himself up for that.  
  
The week passes without any further incident. I keep an eye out for Sherlock, but if he is watching me at all he is staying out of sight extremely well. I decide that since there’s nothing I can do about anyway it I shouldn’t be worrying about it, and try to remember his point about the CCTV cameras. I never really noticed quite how many of the things there are around these days until he mentioned it.   
  
At lunchtime on Friday my phone goes off with a text alert.  
  
“Hide and seek. Rules as before. Loser cooks. SH.”  
  
I have to read it twice. _Loser cooks_. That’s really what it says. I text back.   
  
“I am in the middle of work. Can we do this after five? A.”   
  
The response comes back after exactly a minute.  
  
“One. No. SH.”  
  
I look at what I still have to do and wonder if I can come back to it on Monday. There’s nothing too urgent, but I don’t know what my manager will say. On the other hand, I don’t have a lot of time to get going. I walk quickly towards her office, but bump into her before I get to it.  
  
“Hi Adriane, are you all right?” she says.  
  
“Yes,” I say. “Ehm, Sophie, could I have the afternoon off? Something has come up.”  
  
She looks at me a little surprised, but says, “Yes, I think that should be OK. Make sure you fill in a leave sheet on Monday though.”  
  
While we are talking my telephone beeps. _Two_ , I think. I say a hurried thank you and walk off. I check the message as I grab my jacket and walk out of the building.  
  
“Two. You are still at work. SH.”  
  
I text back, “I’m switching it off, Sherlock. A.”  
  
I’m wondering if the whole countdown will be there on my phone when I switch it back on again, or whether he will not bother. I am dying to poke him a little about the cooking, but I suspect he was trying to get me to leave my phone on for longer by throwing that in. I wonder what dinner would be if he won, although I realise that the chances of that are slim. Beans on toast, probably. I am briefly tempted to text back that I’d rather lose. However, I’m intrigued, and so intend to give it my best shot.  
  
It’s been a while since I’ve had a Friday afternoon off work, and it’s nice to be in the buzz of London on a spring day like today. I decide to walk down to Oxford Street rather than face the crowded tube. My plan is to stay in the busy places, to try and hide amongst the people. I didn’t so much dress up as dress down today, and my worn jeans and old sweatshirt raised a few comments at work. I managed to find my old denim jacket too, and I belief I could pass easily as yet another student in a crowd.  
  
I know that Sherlock anticipates something of the sort from last week, but to be honest I have begun to run out of ideas. I reckon that the city centre is such a big place with so many people that it should be very hard to locate me even if he knows I am there. Without the use of his homeless network I think I should have a good chance of at least making it past the one hour mark. Given how things have gone with these games so far, that would be a result.  
  
Oxford Street is very busy and I slow down a little when I get there. I like it here, even though Sherlock has effectively drained my budget for shopping for the next three months or so with the extortionate meal at the Criterion two weeks ago. Still, I can look, and who knows I will come across a bargain that I can talk myself into. The crowd is the usual mixture of well-to-do Londoners, students, ladies that lunch, tourists of all nationalities, business people, street artists and the homeless. I keep an eye out for the latter, but the few homeless people that I see don’t give me any special notice, so it appears that Sherlock is keeping that part of the deal. On a whim I buy a Big Issue.   
  
I look at my watch. Twenty minutes have passed since the countdown started, and I haven’t even started going into the shops yet. This is going better than I expected. I decide to have a look around Monsoon. If I’m not going to spend any money, I may as well do it in style. Thankfully the shop assistants leave me alone as I browse the racks and I take my time looking through the clothes. The price tags make me laugh though. I know I love living in London, but how anyone could afford to live here and dress well at the same time is beyond me. Sherlock’s barbed remarks about my fashion sense come back to haunt me and I leave the shop. Maybe I should have gone to Covent Garden instead.  
  
I walk down Oxford Street again, wondering where to go next. Thirty minutes. Time to hide in a coffee shop for a while, I think, but not in a small street-level one with lots of windows this time. I head into one of the big department stores instead, just in case I am being watched.   
  
I manage to make the coffee last another fifteen minutes. After I finish I have a wander around the store, ending up in the houseware department. It reminds me that I need to buy my mum a birthday present in the next week or so, but I can’t really concentrate at the moment. The thought that I might actually make it past an hour this time is making me buzz. Small victories, I think, but it would make my day.   
  
Walking back through the menswear department I glance at the suits, not something I have taken much of an interest in before. The prices make me do a second take. All I can think is that consulting detective must be a lucrative occupation, or maybe Sherlock is holding Mrs Hudson to ransom over the rent. The thought makes me smile. I wouldn’t put it past him, although I’m sure John would have something to say about it. Anyway, for all I know it may be old money that is paying for the suits, he does come across as being from a very well-to-do background. I suddenly realise that I know nothing at all about Sherlock, other than what it says on his website. For all the time I have spent at Baker Street he has never actually told me anything about himself apart from the fact that he has no real interest in me.   
  
I’m still mulling over the thought when I walk back out of the store onto Oxford Street. I’m wondering whether to turn left or right when a man walks up to me, looking confused. He’s a business type, sharp suit and tie, a few years older than me, slightly overweight. He hesitates for a moment.  
  
“Ehm. Are you Adriane Woodford?” he says.  
  
I’ve never seen this guy before. I say yes anyway, getting a little suspicious now. He passes me his mobile phone.  
  
“It’s for you.” He looks bemused.  
  
I look at him blankly and take the phone off him. It isn’t showing an incoming call. I am about to pass it back to him and ask him whether this is some kind of joke when a text message comes in.  
  
“Found you. TQ 28822 81194. Outside John Lewis, wearing shabby jeans, an unspeakable sweater and a denim jacket. 58 minutes. Switch your phone on. SH.”  
  
I look at the message for far too long before I give the man his phone back and say, “Thank you. Do you know the person that was from?” I think I know what the answer is going to be.  
  
“No, I just… I got a phone call from this guy. Asking me to pass the phone onto you. He gave a pretty accurate description,” he says. He’s still looking confused. “Is this some kind of set-up?” he asks. He’s beginning to look suspicious now.   
  
I shake my head, “No. Not for you, in any case. Thank you very much.”  
  
I walk off before he can say any more. As I am walking, I switch my phone on. I’m curious what messages are waiting for me, if any. The phone beeps as soon as it comes on. One text.  
  
“When you get this I have no doubt located you somewhere on Oxford Street. Will be at your flat for 6:30. SH.”  
  
I check the message envelope. It was sent just under fifty minutes ago.  
  
The sheer arrogance of the man makes me want to scream. Against my better judgment I text him back.  
  
“How did you know I was going to Oxford Street? A.”  
  
The return text is nearly immediate.  
  
“Obvious. You were walking straight towards it. SH.”  
  
I’m getting angry now. It seems that he’s happy to cheat.  
  
“If you were watching me then that’s cheating. A.” I text back.  
  
“I wasn’t watching you. SH.” Comes the reply.  
  
“Then someone else was. You promised no homeless network. A.” I respond. It doesn’t make any sense.  
  
“Nobody was watching you on my behalf. SH.”  
  
Why he can’t just answer the question straight is beyond me. I can only conclude that he is really enjoying this. I try one last time.  
  
“Then how could you possibly know? You were still counting. I switched my phone off. A.”  
  
“I reminded you of the existence of CCTV networks only last week. I really expected your retention to be better than that. SH.”  
  
I’m not sure I can quite believe it. All I can think is _how the hell did he manage to get access to the footage_. I take a look around me, at the busy street. There are cameras everywhere. It would have been easy to spot me even if he only had access to a small number of them. I don’t even have to send my next text, because the answer has already arrived.  
  
“I have told you before not to assume anything. SH.”  
  
While I am still thinking about it, another text.  
  
“For your information, I only started scanning the footage after my count had finished. There was no cheating involved. 6:30, your flat. SH.”  
  
I sigh. At least it was close. I send him one more text.  
  
“What would you like for dinner? A.”  
  
“Surprise me. SH,” is the response.   
  
_Unlikely_ , I think, but I keep it to myself.  
  
I look at my watch. One thirty. Plenty of time. I decide to spend the rest of the afternoon in town, window shopping and getting stuff for dinner. I briefly consider cooking something really messy like cheesy chilli with nachos but conclude that that would be petty, and most likely I would be the one who’d end up getting covered in it. In the end I settle on a Thai green curry because it’s easy and looks good.   
  
I am surprised at how nervous I am for this evening. I’m not used to entertaining and I’m conscious that compared to the flat at Baker Street my pad looks uninspiring and a bit shabby. I try to make the most of it, but don’t overdo it. He’s seen this place after all so he should know what to expect. I get dressed up a bit though, as I don’t fancy yet more barbed comments on my sense of style. As the time gets closer to 6:30, I get more and more jittery. It would have been better to go out, I think, at least I’d be going somewhere rather than hanging around waiting.  
  
Sherlock arrives at 6:30 on the dot, bringing just himself. I don’t know why I half expected him to bring drinks, but he clearly thinks that even a two minute margin doesn’t count. Thankfully I have bought wine.  
  
“Adriane,” he says as he enters my flat.   
  
I just say, “Hi.” This is awkward.   
  
Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice, but just carries on and hangs his coat up. He is looking gorgeous in all black and I try not to stare. I envy him his easy sense of style. _I couldn’t look that good even if I spent two hours in front of the mirror_ , I think.  
  
Thankfully Sherlock is oblivious to my musings as he walks into the living room and sniffs a moment.  
  
“Thai curry,” he says. “I fully expected you to make something messier than that.”  
  
I look at him a moment, hoping that that was just an educated guess.  
  
“I decided that would be petty,” I say.   
  
He smirks, happy that at least I considered it.   
  
Once dinner gets underway I relax a little. Sherlock is on good form, obviously pleased with himself that he found me so quickly in town. He talks CCTV networks because I ask him about it, and I’m impressed how much he knows about the subject, and how easy he seems to find it to hack his way around anything. He is completely disdainful about people’s ability to pick difficult passwords. I make a note to myself to increase the security on my computer when he goes.  
  
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” I say after we have finished the dim sum, and the first glass of wine is starting to make me mellow out.  
  
Sherlock looks at me, waiting for my question.  
  
“Who was the guy with the mobile phone? I’ve never seen him before. He wasn’t homeless network.”  
  
“Oh him,” Sherlock says. “The nearest person with a mobile phone that looked gormless enough to pass you a message. And who didn’t look homeless.”  
  
“Oh,” I say. “How…”  
  
He just smiles. “You don’t need to know _everything_ , Adriane.”  
  
I take that as my cue to get the main course on the table. I have to admit the food is good, and I feel proud of it. Even though I don’t think Sherlock would ever say anything nice about it, I take the fact he is apparently enjoying it as a compliment. For a moment I consider asking him straight out but decide against it.   
  
He looks up, and says, “It’s good, Adriane. Stop worrying about the food.”  
  
Now I am getting worried. I have never heard Sherlock trying to be _nice_ about anything. I am wondering if I’m missing something. I’m sure my confusion is showing, but Sherlock just returns my gaze, all innocence, and continues eating.  
  
The conversation drifts towards my teenage years. I’m not sure how, but I find myself talking about my college days, my first boyfriends, how things got out of hand with some of them. Sherlock is listening without comment, never asking _why_ , sometimes asking _how_. I am still vaguely wondering what he is driving at, why he is taking an interest at all, but the second glass of wine has clouded my judgement a little and I decide I don’t care. Somewhere in the back of my head I realise I should stop drinking before I do anything silly, while at the same time the rest of my mind wonders what would happen if I just made a pass at him.  
  
After dessert, he goes quiet for a moment and then says, “Adriane, I would like you to do me a personal favour.”  
  
I’m not sure what to think. It almost sounds like a polite request, which is very unlike him. The word _personal_ sets off a tiny alarm bell.  
  
“What is it?” I ask, no doubt sounding guarded.  
  
“Masturbate for me.”  
  
I have to close my eyes a moment to register my disbelief and move on from it. When I look at him again he is still in the same place, looking at me without showing any signs of embarrassment.  
  
“ _What?_ ” is all I can say.  
  
“You heard what I said,” he says calmly.   
  
“But _why?_ ” I say. “I thought you took no interest in that kind of thing.”  
  
“It is of incidental relevance to a case I am working on,” he says. “But mainly out of personal interest. It is not something I have observed before.”  
  
I try to collect my thoughts a moment before responding.  
  
“Sherlock, there are any number of films out there that will show you that kind of stuff in educational detail,” I say in the end.  
  
“All of which are edited to a greater or lesser extent,” he responds. “In any case, I prefer direct observation as a method of gathering data. You as a scientist should appreciate that. And films don’t tend to answer questions.”  
  
“But,” I manage. Unfortunately I’m not sure what to say.  
  
“Adriane, it’s not something I could ask of many other people. I very much doubt Molly would comply,” he says.  
  
 _I’m not so sure,_ I think, but I don’t say it. As usual his logic is watertight, but it really isn’t that simple. I’m still lost for words. I’ve also gone bright red.  
  
He sits back in his chair, observing me. Then he says, “Only a moment ago you were considering making a pass at me, which shows that sex wasn’t all that far from your mind. Is this so different?”  
  
It takes me a while to unscramble my brain from that one. _I should know better than to think stuff like that when he’s watching me_ , I think. Unfortunately I can feel him manoeuvring me into a position where he is completely in control again. In a way it was silly of me to think that he ever wasn’t. The submissive part of me finds this highly arousing, while the sensible half is still struggling with the embarrassment and exposure. In a last ditch attempt to get out of this I cling onto my sensible thoughts and say, “Sherlock, it’s not as simple as that. It’s not like pushing a button. I’d have to be in the mood.”   
  
As soon as the last words leave my mouth I know I have said the wrong thing if I was intending to get out of it. Even to me it sounds like a concession.  
  
 _No,_ I think desperately, _not what I wanted to say_.    
  
But it’s too late. Sherlock has already taken up the challenge, as he is looking at me with a slight smile, all focus.  
  
“That can be arranged,” he says.   
  
For a very brief moment I consider just running away, but I’m at home, there’s nowhere to go. It might have been different if we had been at Baker Street. A sudden realisation dawns on me.  
  
“You planned this,” I say.  
  
“I wasn’t going to put you in a position where Mrs Hudson could walk in at any moment,” Sherlock replies.   
  
He gets up and motions me to stand. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I get off my chair anyway. He’s already walking towards the bedroom, saying, “Come.”  
  
His unfailing certainty that I will do exactly what he is saying is intoxicating. It is as if there is no option to say no, but I also realise that if I did he would only use it as an opportunity to manipulate the hell out of me again until I said yes anyway. Better to preserve my sanity, or what’s left of it, and comply, I think.  
  
When I get to the bedroom Sherlock takes my arms and moves me until my back is against one of the walls. The symbolism isn’t lost on me but I don’t say anything. He is standing very close to me, far too close for comfort, and I can feel my own excitement mounting waiting for him to touch me. He’s just watching me for the moment, but I find I can’t hold his gaze and look away. I silently curse my own body for being so transparent. He takes my chin, gently turning my head until I am looking at him again.  
  
“Look at me.”  
  
I meet his eyes. He’s completely calm, just watching me squirm.  
  
“Adriane, the embarrassment is entirely yours. I am not embarrassed and I promise you that won’t change. It would be better if you could let it go,” he says.  
  
His hand moves from my chin, along my throat to the first button on my top. He calmly proceeds to unbutton it. I take a deep breath and go with it. After all, my body made its own mind up about ten minutes ago. He’s still watching me as he is making his way down my top, occasionally touching my skin.  
  
“Given everything else I have done to you, I am surprised how embarrassed you are at this,” he says. “Why?”  
  
He has reached the last button now and is casually running his fingers down along my body. I am finding it very hard to form any rational thought. I manage, “Hng. Dunno”  
  
He stops and takes his hand off.  
  
 _Wrong answer_ , I think.  
  
“Wrong answer. Articulate,” he says.   
  
I try to focus my thoughts into something cohesive, then I throw out the first thing that comes to mind, which is gut feeling and as such probably right.  
  
“When you do things to _me_ all I have to do is accept it, to submit to it. The choice is taken away from me. Now you are asking me to do something to _myself_ which implies an active choice on my part. You are asking me to show you that I am not just putting up with this but I actually _want_ it, in the most personal way possible. And it goes against everything I have ever been brought up to believe is decent. And you’ll be taking notes.”  
  
He smiles at me, briefly, and says, “Good. And with _proper_ words, too.” I try to ignore the sarcasm.  
  
Sherlock carries on where he left off, running his hand over my stomach down to my trousers. He makes short work of unzipping them and they drop to the floor. Then he moves my top off my shoulders, which also makes its way down. I am down to my underwear, and he stands back a moment to look at me. I find it unnerving and am feeling very exposed under his cool gaze. There is no denying that by now I am very aroused, and I know he can see it. He waves his hand in my general direction and says, “Take the rest off.”  
  
I do, but I’m fumbling, and it takes a moment. The fact he is watching me is not helping. I don’t have time to worry about what will happen next, however. As I straighten up I become aware that he is standing very close to me again. I didn’t notice him move, and I unwillingly give a start. He just smiles a second, then runs his fingers over me again, this time touching my breast and nipple, and finishing down my waist. Then he does this again, running his hand down the other side of my body, making my skin tingle and my breathing uneven.  
  
I can’t think much more than how much I want him, and reach out to touch him. He takes my arm with his other hand before I get to him and puts it gently back against the wall.  
  
“No,” he says calmly.   
  
It only serves to get me more excited. I half consider trying again, but he leans close to my ear, and says quietly, “Adriane, you’ll want the use of your hands later. Don’t make me tie them together. You’d only have to humiliate yourself to get me to let you go again.”  
  
“I’m not the begging type,” I manage, just about.  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t _force_ you to beg,” he says, “I’d make you _want to_.”   
  
As he moves away he briefly brushes my neck with his lips. By now I am barely holding myself together. I know this is all a game to him, none of it is real, but he knows all the right buttons to press and the effect on me is very real indeed.    
  
He takes my hand and walks me over to the bed.   
  
“Lie down.”   
  
I get down on the bed, feeling exposed and self-conscious once again. Sherlock sits down on the edge. He looks at me a moment, then says, “It’s not like this is the first time you’ve done this for someone, Adriane.”  
  
I’m not going to ask how he worked that out. Instead, I say, “That was different.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to explain. It takes me a moment to get my thoughts in order.   
  
“I was never the only aroused person in the room,” I say. _Or the only undressed one,_ I add to myself. For some reason, the contrast only feeds my excitement. I wonder if he is aware of it.   
  
Sherlock just says, “Hm.” Then he leans over and kisses my nipple, slowly running his tongue around it.   
  
All my carefully arranged thoughts evaporate. I close my eyes as the intense sensation overwhelms me. I can feel his hand on my wrist as he takes my arm and moves it between my legs. I can feel how wet I am, and I don’t need any further prompting. The self-consciousness of a moment ago is gone, replaced by pure lust, and I begin to finger myself. Without thought my other hand moves to touch him, but he quickly takes my arm, holding it down on the bed. After a moment he releases my nipple and sits up, still holding onto my arm. I briefly open my eyes to look at him. He is calmly studying me, and now his eyes meet mine. He lifts my arm, then releases it, saying, “Last chance.”  
  
I close my eyes again, unable to look at him any longer. All I want to do is touch him. I settle on touching myself instead, running my hand over my breasts and playing with my nipples. I am getting carried away by the sensations, one hand on my clit, the other on my breast. A half-formed thought flits through my mind, _At least I can give him a good show._  
  
With that I move my hand from my nipple and between my legs, sliding two fingers inside me. I go with the sensation, moving with what feels good, not thinking anything at all anymore. Occasionally I open my eyes to look at Sherlock. He is watching me intently, but without showing any emotion. His complete detachment is maddening, but it feeds into my arousal until I feel as if I have enough for two.   
  
It doesn’t take long for my excitement to build to a peak. I am not really in control of what I am doing anymore, my hands now doing their own thing, moving with their own rhythm, the feeling taking over my body. I am no longer aware of my surroundings as I slowly feel my climax building up. When it comes, the orgasm crashes over me in waves, obliterating everything.   
  
Just as I am starting to come out of it, I can feel Sherlock move my hands away. I start to open my eyes, wondering what is going on, but I am stopped by the feeling of him sliding his fingers inside me. His hand is cool, and the sensation takes my orgasm to another level. I grab hold of him in order to control myself, and this time he doesn’t push me away. I can feel myself contracting on his fingers. He carries on way beyond where I would have stopped, until I cannot tell up from down anymore, to a point where it becomes unbearable. To stop myself from screaming I sink my teeth into his shoulder. If he registers it he doesn’t show it, or I don’t notice.  
  
When he finally stops and slowly slides his fingers out of me it takes a while for the world to come back into focus. I let go of him and lie back on the bed. He looks at his hand and briefly tastes his fingers. I find the gesture indescribably sexy, although I am sure it wasn’t intended as such. He looks back at me and says, “Thank you. That was interesting.”  
  
I don’t have any words at the moment, so I just nod. My breath is still coming rapidly, but all tension has drained out of me and I feel relaxed just lying there, not in any way self-conscious anymore.  
  
“I’m sorry I bit you,” I say after a while.  
  
“Yes,” he says. He looks amused more than anything. Then he asks, “Do you always close your eyes, or was that because I was here?”  
  
I think about it a moment.   
  
“No, I usually close my eyes. The ceiling isn’t all that interesting.”  
  
He looks at me a while longer.  
  
“Any more questions?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.  
  
“No,” he answers, and gets up.   
  
He walks to the kitchen and I can hear him wash his hands. I think about just staying in bed but that would be rude, so I get up and put on my bathrobe. As I walk into the living room, Sherlock comes out of the kitchen. He says,  
  
“There was no need for you to get up, Adriane. I can let myself out.”  
  
 _He’s going, just like that_ , I think. I guess it makes sense to him though, he has got what he came for, there is no need to hang around. Clinical, as always, and I briefly wonder what he actually feels. I think I have earned an opportunity for one honest answer though, so I say, “Sherlock, one thing.”  
  
He looks at me, waiting for my question.  
  
“Did you not get slightly aroused? At all?” I just want to know.   
  
He just smiles at me in his superior fashion, clearly not prepared to answer that, and says, “Good night, Adriane. Thank you for dinner.” Then he gets on his coat and leaves.  
  
After half an hour or so I receive a text.  
  
“One more chance for you to win next week. I think we will up the stakes a little. I wouldn’t want you to get complacent. SH.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I am winding down at work and beginning to think about going home, a text arrives. “Hide and seek. All of London. You have a ten minute head start. Dinner is on the loser. Two hours. SH." At first I think he must be joking. After a minute, another text comes in.  
> “One. SH."
> 
> This chapter: one more chance to get it right. Go Adriane!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.

In contrast to Friday, dinner with Phil on Saturday is a very civilised affair. He is a good cook and the food is great, but the conversation is strained. I feel he is tiptoeing around me, staying on the polite side to avoid having to ask difficult questions. After an hour of this I force the issue when we move to the sofa.  
  
"Phil, is there anything you want to ask me?"  
  
He fumbles his words, but eventually gets to the point.  
  
"You said there was a lot more to the stuff you told me last week. Can you tell me about it?"  
  
I knew we were going to get to this at some point, so I have thought about the answer. I pour us both another drink, and then start to explain about the abuse, some of the stupid choices I have made in the past. I can tell he is desperately trying to understand, but he’s struggling. When I finish, he says, "I just don't get why you keep getting into these situations again and again. It's almost as if you go looking for these guys."  
 _  
If I can make him understand that that is exactly what I do then I will have achieved something,_ I think.  
  
“That’s the problem,” I say, “I do. I can’t help it.”  
  
He is quiet for a long time. Then he says, “And how does Sherlock fit into all this?”  
  
“He’s… different,” I say, after some thought. “He just uses me as a test subject. He has no personal interest. If I get hurt there is a reason for it. And he always tells me what he’s doing.” _Well, most of the time, anyway,_ I add to myself.  
  
Phil is just looking at me incredulously, even though I have told him some of this before.  
  
“So what,” he says, “You just let him do anything to you? That’s bloody dangerous if you ask me. How do you know he’s not going to kill you just to see how it’s done?”  
  
“No, not anything,” I say, “We have a deal. No permanent damage. And he has… a doctor friend. Who makes sure I’m OK.”  
  
Phil just says, “Jesus.”  
  
He pours himself another drink. _This is going well,_ I think.  
  
We sit quietly for quite some time. He finishes his drink before he asks, “And is there space for anyone else in your life?”  
  
I’m surprised he is being so direct, but it may be the shock and the alcohol speaking. “I don’t know, Phil,” I say truthfully. “They’d have to be amazingly tolerant.”  
  
He is looking at his glass. “Have you slept with him?”  
  
He’s on a roll now. I am starting to feel pretty uncomfortable. I decide to go with the truth, though, or at least as much as I feel I can tell.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Now he’s looking at me. “I thought you said he took no interest,” he says.  
  
“He didn’t,” I say, “I did. I think he was humouring me. He said it was interesting.” I don’t tell him about yesterday, though.  
  
I’m waiting for him to get angry or upset, but he doesn’t. He looks at me for a very long time before leaning over and drawing me into a hug.  
  
“Adriane, your life is a mess,” he finally says.  
  
I just say, “Hm.” At this moment I can only agree with him.

\----oooOOOooo----

  
The week passes without incident. Work is pretty busy so I don’t have too much time to stop and think. Phil makes a point of saying hello whenever we run into each other. On Wednesday I make my mind up and ask him over for dinner on Saturday. He seems really pleased. I wonder how he can still take an interest after everything I have told him.  
  
There is one thing I do get round to, and that is to prepare for Friday. I am worried that Sherlock thinks I am getting complacent even though I haven’t won a single game, so I prepare a plan and get ready. I make a point of wearing the same kind of clothes the whole week and use my rucksack instead of a hand bag, and I pack it on Thursday evening with the things I think I might need. I feel a little silly putting a couple of old party wigs in there, but I reckon it is better to be safe than sorry.  
  
I am in the tearoom with Phil when the first text comes in at 4:30, just as I am beginning to wonder if he is going to call me out or not.  
  
“Hide and seek. Two hours. All of London. No restrictions on my part. You have one hour to hide properly. Loser buys dinner at the Criterion. SH.”  
  
 _Oh well,_ I think, _never mind_. There really is no way I could afford to go there again, so I’m going to have to decline. I text back.  
  
“Sorry Sherlock, I really cannot afford to go there. I’m going to have to say no. A.”  
  
After exactly one minute, I receive another text.  
  
“One. Wrong answer. SH.”  
  
I text him back immediately.  
  
“I don’t really have much choice in the matter. A.”  
  
After another minute, a text comes up on Phil’s phone. He looks confused.  
  
“What is it?” I ask. He shows me. It says, “Two. SH.”  
  
I am still looking at it and wondering what to say to him when another message arrives on my phone.

  
“Three. Would you like me to tell Phil about last Friday? Or would you prefer to wait for a better opportunity to tell him yourself? SH.”  
  
Phil is still trying to make sense of the rogue text. “Adriane, do you know what’s going on?” he says. “Who was that text from?”  
  
“It’s nothing,” I say, “Just ignore it.” I can tell I don’t sound very convincing, but I’m also in the middle of writing an angry text back to Sherlock.  
  
“That is blackmail. Stop it. A.”  
  
It takes a minute for the next text to come in. This time, there’s an attachment.  
  
“Four. Wrong. It’s a bit of coercion. Blackmail would be for me to threaten to show him this. SH.”  
  
I only have to glance at the picture to know that it is not suitable for work. And that it’s of me. I text back frantically, aware that I am blushing furiously.  
  
“You never said you were taking photographs. Don’t you dare show that to Phil. A.”  
  
Phil is looking worried. “Adriane, are you OK? This is Sherlock, isn’t it?” he asks.  
  
I nod, and say, “He’s playing a mind game. He probably just thinks it’s funny. But he shouldn’t be getting you dragged into this.”  
  
Another text arrives on my phone. “Five. You never said I couldn’t. And I haven’t threatened to show it to him yet. Now hide. SH.”  
  
I take a deep breath. He has me in an impossible situation. There really is no telling whether these are empty threats or not, and I don’t know him well enough to judge. From what I have seen he is pretty ruthless and doesn’t hold much regard for social convention, so the chances are that he is entirely serious. I decide not to chance it.  
  
I say to Phil, “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow.”  
  
He doesn’t look too happy. “He’s messing with your head, Adriane. How can you let him do that?”  
  
“Unfortunately he’s an expert,” I say. “Don’t worry Phil, it really is just a game. I am going to have a word with him afterwards.”  
  
With that, I head off. I’m a lot more worried that I let show to Phil, and I am racking my brains for a way out of this. Suddenly, a thought hits me. John.  
  
As I get my phone out, another text comes in. “Six. Have you made your mind up yet? SH.”  
  
I text him back. “Yes. I am playing. But I am angry. A.”  
  
  
Then, I send one to John. “Please can you give me a ring when you have a minute? Sherlock’s games are threatening to bankrupt me. A.”  
  
Sherlock’s next text arrives before John phones. “Seven. Good. SH.”  
  
I’m wondering if he means good that I’m playing, or good that I’m angry, or both. No time to worry about it, I have things to do. I run into the ladies’, and get changed into the clothes I have brought. I am in a state of semi-undress when the phone rings. It’s John, and he sounds worried.  
  
“Adri, what’s going on?”  
  
I briefly explain what has been happening over the last three weeks, and where we are at now. He isn’t impressed.  
  
“Jesus, Adri, you should have told me before. I warned you he’s bloody dangerous when he’s bored. Have you actually agreed to tonight?”  
  
I say yes, I didn’t really have any choice.  
  
“Great. Just great. Couldn’t you just say no?” John is sounding annoyed.  
  
“John, he was threatening to blackmail me.” I say.  
  
“Wha… Hold on a moment. How can anyone _threaten_ to blackmail? Surely you either blackmail or don’t.”  
  
“No,” I say, “trust me, he just made it clear what he _wasn’t_ doing. He didn’t say he _would_. But I wasn’t going to take the chance. “  
  
John sighs. “I told you before, you’ve bitten off far more than you can chew. How did he get anything he could blackmail you with in the first place?”  
  
I don’t really want to answer that. It suddenly hits me that Sherlock might have been planning this for much longer than I thought.  
  
“Ehm,” I say. This is awkward. “He talked me into doing something personal. And then took a photograph without me noticing.”  
  
John goes quiet for a bit as he translates this, then says, “Oh. _Oh_. Jesus, Adri. That was a bit daft.”  
  
“Yeah,” I say, “I know.”  
  
He seems to think about it for a while, then says, “I don’t want to phone him to tell him to call it off. If he decides to be belligerent and ignore me it could work out much worse for you. But there is something we could try. I’m not promising anything.”  
  
While we are talking, four more texts arrive. I check them when John has hung up. They are simple counts, without comment. I text Sherlock back.  
  
“I want that photograph destroyed. A.”  
  
His next text comes in when I have nearly finished changing.  
  
“Twelve. Only that one? SH.”  
  
I swear quietly to myself, then text back. “How many are there? A.”  
  
I have to wait a long minute for the answer. This is costing me time, but it’s important.  
  
“Thirteen. Enough. SH.”  
  
I am running out of patience now. I text him back.  
  
“I WANT EVERY SINGLE PICTURE THAT YOU HAVE OF ME ENGAGED IN A SEXUAL ACTIVITY DESTROYED. A.”  
  
I hope that’s clear enough, without any loopholes. Time passes too slowly. After an age, I get a reply.  
  
“Fourteen. There is a magic word. SH.”  
  
By now I am fuming. I can just picture him sending these, being all calm and very smug about it. However, I swallow my pride and text back.  
  
“Please, Sherlock. I am extremely uncomfortable about this. A.”  
  
I put my old clothes back in the rucksack while waiting for his next text. When my phone beeps I scramble for it.  
  
“Fifteen. Let’s see if you can win. SH.”  
  
 _It was never going to be that simple_ , I think. It makes me even angrier that he has been stringing me along for near enough five minutes. I text him back, “I am switching my phone off. A.”  
  
I keep it on for another minute though, just to see what he has to say. The response comes in on the dot,

  
“Sixteen. Why? I am not currently tracing you. SH.”  
  
I promise myself one more text and then I’m switching it off. I reply, “No doubt there is some way to trace the history of where someone has been afterwards. A.”  
  
I stay in the toilets and wait for the response just in case I’m right. While I am waiting I try and calm down a bit, because I am still angry and upset and it won’t help me at all to win the game. If I am going to get anywhere, I need to be calm. After exactly one minute, another text comes in.  
  
“Seventeen. Oh good. You’re actually thinking for once. SH.”  
  
That makes me feel a little better. I take a deep breath and switch off the phone. Now I just hope that John will manage to do what he said he would. I have to go on the assumption that he will. I feel a bit blind without my phone.  
  
Nearly forty-five minutes to get where I’m going should be plenty. I make my way to a side door that the staff sometimes use for their cigarette breaks. The alarm on it has been broken for ages, awaiting repair after too many rounds of budget cuts. I let myself out after making sure that I am not being observed.  
  
It’s another beautiful spring evening, and there are still quite a few people on the pavement. I join the crowd, walking leisurely to the tube station, trying not to act conspicuously and just hoping that the wig and the hoody and the change of clothing are doing enough to disguise me. I get a ticket, take a random circle line train and stay on until Liverpool Street Station. There I make my way to the shopping precinct.  
  
I make sure I spend a little bit of time in an area where there are quite a few CCTV cameras, trying not to look as if I am intending to be seen. Then I walk out onto the street through the main entrance, and a moment later back in through one of the side entrances, quickly making my way to the toilets. There I get changed again. The curly wig looks pretty ridiculous, but with some hair clips I manage to make it look at least slightly realistic. I just hope the cameras won’t show up the creases on the smart clothes that have been stuffed in the bottom of my rucksack all day. I change my contacts to glasses and look in the mirror.  
  
The fact I don’t really recognise myself but am just looking at yet another secretary gives me some confidence. Finally I change my shoes and head out to the central line trains, taking the next train to Oxford Circus. I stay on the underground circuit this time and walk across to the Bakerloo line. I sit down for a while at the platform, letting a couple of northbound trains go past.  
  
The clock on the signs tells me that there are only fifteen minutes of the countdown left. Time for the final move, I think. I jump on the next train bound for Baker Street.  
  
Once I arrive at the station I begin to feel nervous. If Sherlock is looking out of the window, or is having the flat watched, then John’s plan will almost certainly fail. Its success hinges on him never expecting me to go here in the first place. As I walk up the side of the road I keep close to the buildings to keep out of view of the windows. I duck under Speedy’s canopy as soon as I get somewhere near it. Maybe not the most elegant of entries, but now at least I am certain that I am out of sight.  
  
I walk into the café and go straight up to the owner.  
  
“Adriane,” I say to him. He nods, and lets me go through to the back. As soon as I get there, I take off the silly wig. Now it is just a question of climbing the fence between the two tiny courtyard gardens, and thankfully they have put out a stepladder to make it easier. Getting up is simple enough, but getting down proves to be more tricky. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn a skirt, I think, as I feel the tights rip when I tumble over the fence. I manage to not land too loudly, and when I have got up and brushed myself down I tap quietly on the back door of Mrs Hudson’s apartment.  
  
She lets me in very quietly, although she does giggle a bit at the state of me. I take off the tights altogether and put them in the bin. Then I sit down with my back to the wall of the kitchen, hiding to the side of the kitchen door. Even if Sherlock came into the hallway he shouldn’t be able to see me.  
  
I breathe a massive sigh of relief when I realise that everything so far has gone to plan. I’ve got the jitters a bit after all that, and Mrs Hudson makes me a cup of tea, whispering, “Are you all right? You look dreadful!”  
  
I nod and say, quietly, “I’m fine. I just got the shakes a bit. That was all a bit silly.”  
  
“Well, get a few biscuits inside you, that should perk you up,” she whispers, putting a tin in front of me. I help myself.  
  
The clock on the wall shows that the countdown has finished about five minutes ago. I should know soon enough if John’s plan has worked. I am expecting Sherlock to come down the stairs any moment, but time moves on and still everything is quiet in the flat above. Mrs Hudson is busying herself around her apartment, occasionally putting her head around the door to see if I’m still OK. She is keeping me well supplied with tea.  
  
The next time she pops in, I ask her, very quietly, “Is Sherlock actually here? Did he go out?”  
  
“No, I’m sure he is here,” she whispers, “he’s been in all day.”  
  
I’m surprised when the clock moves to 6:30. One hour, I’ve not got this far yet. Maybe I’m in with a chance this time. I’m wondering what Sherlock is doing, how he is trying to trace me. I am hoping that my two changes of outfit will have made finding me on any CCTV footage hard, and may also have confused the homeless network. I am quietly hopeful.  
  
By the end of the second hour, I have looked at every little detail in the kitchen at least a hundred times. I swear I could draw the place from memory, and will probably end up dreaming about it. I am getting more and more nervous as I watch the hands of the clock slowly move towards half past seven. The last five minutes last nearly as long as the preceding two hours. I give it another five minutes to be on the safe side, then switch my phone back on. Nearly immediately a text arrives.  
  
“Come out, come out, wherever you are. SH.”  
  
Even Mrs Hudson is looking a little worried as I make my way out of the kitchen. I have no idea how Sherlock is going to react. The stairs seem longer than I remember. I hesitate in front of the door. It’s only a game, I remind myself, then knock. It takes a moment before he responds.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
I take a deep breath before opening the door and enter the room. Sherlock is sitting in a chair, watching me come in. He doesn’t say anything, but gives me a cursory glance over. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he shouts down.  
  
“Mrs Hudson!”  
  
It’s a very dithery Mrs Hudson who makes her way into the room after a minute or so. Sherlock moves his gaze away from me and onto her only when she is fully inside the room. I breathe a little easier for a moment.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she says, “John said it would be all right. It was only a game, after all.”  
Sherlock’s composure only falters for a fraction of a second, but to me he looks briefly hurt. His gaze abruptly returns to me, as he dismisses Mrs Hudson with a wave of his hand. She turns round with a nervous “Oh!” and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.  
  
He is still silent when he gets up and walks over to me, his eyes never leaving me. When he is just a couple of inches too close to me, he stops and says, “John.”  
  
It’s a question, not a statement. I nod. He’s unnerving me, and I can’t look him in the eye. He walks slowly around me, saying, "So... John phones Mrs Hudson and Speedy's, and all you have to do is to change your look a couple of times while making your way here, and stay hidden in the tube network. The guys at Speedy's help you over the fence, and then Mrs Hudson kindly keeps you supplied with tea for two hours. A cushy little deal."  
  
I don't know why he is making me feel like a criminal over a game of hide and seek. I'm just grateful I will never be on the receiving end of this in a proper case and I almost feel sorry for the criminals. I’m wondering if he’s going to let me off now, but he hasn’t finished yet. He continues his slow circle, still fixing me with his gaze, and carries on.  
  
“It was easy enough to follow you down from the college to Liverpool Street Station. I know of the side entrance, I was expecting you to take it. And you made plenty of effort to be spotted on the CCTV at Liverpool Street so I knew you were going to get changed again, otherwise there would have been no point in doing that. It was all _very_ obvious until you got to John’s part of the plan. If I am correct your original idea would have been to carry on going south and west, and get off at one of the small stations, all of which I had covered. Am I right?”  
  
I nod. The implication is clear. If it had just been me, I would not have won.  
  
He stops right in front of me, again that little bit too close, and I have to resist an urge to take a step back. I’m not sure where to look. I can’t even tell if he is angry or not. He is quiet until it makes me more than a little uncomfortable. Then he says, “You cheated.” I can’t interpret his tone of voice at all.  
  
My natural instinct is telling me to crumble into a grovelling apology, but I resist. _No, not this time_ , I think. After all, he had a whole network of people at his beck and call. Once again I have to remind myself that this is only a game, even though Sherlock treats it with the same level of intensity as he does with anything else in his life. I take a deep breath and look up at him now.  
  
“I simply made use of the tools at my disposal. You didn’t leave me much choice, Sherlock.”  
  
He doesn’t say anything, but just stands there, watching me, waiting for me to back down. I hold his gaze, defiant, determined that this time I am right, that I deserved to win, and that he is not going to intimidate me into apologising.  
  
Suddenly, a very slow smile spreads across his face as he says, “Good.”  
  
He takes his phone out of his pocket, and navigates the menus. After a moment he shows it to me. “Folder is empty,” it just says on the screen. It takes me a moment to say, “Thank you.”  
  
I’m trying not to show quite how shaky I feel as he moves away and says, “If you had been honest with Phil there would have been no leverage in those.”  
  
I shake my head. It amazes me how simplistic his view of human relationships is sometimes.  
  
“Sherlock,” I say, “If I had told Phil what happened he would have run a mile. He’s struggling as it is.”  
  
He simply shrugs, and says, “You ordinary people complicate your lives so much with this stuff. It’s all, _‘can I tell this, should I tell that?’_ You leave yourself open to so much abuse.”  
  
I have to smile at the comedy voice. _Ordinary_ , I think, _thanks_. I guess he has a point, although it doesn’t really take account of the depth of human emotion. _But then_ , I think, _he wouldn’t_.  
  
Sherlock has walked off now, obviously finished with the discussion, and is looking out of the window. “Dinner, then,” he says. “You need to get changed. _Again_.”  
  
I’m not sure how he expects me to keep looking pristine during these games. It’s easy for him after all, the last two times he hasn’t even left the flat. But I have something else on my mind.  
  
“Sherlock,” I say.  
  
There must be something in my tone of voice, because he is instantly on the alert, his eyes focused on me.  
  
“Ehm,” I carry on. “I don’t really want another posh dinner.”  
  
He’s looking very guarded when he asks, “Then what _do_ you want?”  
  
I briefly close my eyes. With what I am about to ask, there is every chance I will be shot down in flames in an instant. However, I’m sure I’m never going to be in this position again.  
  
I look at him, and say, “A kiss. As if you mean it.”  
  
Sherlock is quiet for a moment, just looking at me as if I am some interesting specimen. I have a sudden urge to turn and run, feeling like I have exposed myself too much this time. He is frowning slightly when he says, “You would have me lie to you.”  
  
That hurts, and I think he can see it. I look away when I say, “If that’s what it takes.”  
  
I have no idea what he is going to do next. I don’t really expect him to do this, and I’m waiting for the cutting put-down. Instead, he says, “Come here.”  
  
I look at him, really unsure now. He’s just standing by the window, waiting. His face is impossible to read. I walk over nervously and stand in front of him.  
  
“Closer. Look at me”  
  
I edge a step closer and look up at him. He’s watching me steadily, not showing anything. I am regretting ever opening my mouth. Just as I think he is going to say something awful he takes my face in his hands, leans over and kisses me.  
  
In an instant everything dissolves down to the here and now, and nothing else matters. He is gentle and unhurried and so very convincing. I try to remind myself that none of this is real, that it is all still a game to him but I can't hold onto the thought. A flood of mixed emotions overwhelms me: relief, arousal, anger, admiration, sadness, joy, awe, regret. I wrap my arms around him to get closer, to make the most of this. All I want is to stay here forever. By the time he finishes and pulls away I am out of breath and feeling slightly unsteady.  
  
He looks at me, frowning. Then he touches my face where the tears have run. He sounds hesitant when he asks, “Why would you ask for something if it was going to upset you this much?”  
  
I shake my head, “No, that was… amazing,” I say. “The tears are for things that cannot be.”  
  
Sherlock is quiet for a while, then he says, “Five minutes, Adriane.”  
  
I know what he means, but I shake my head.  
  
“No. It wouldn’t help me. I’m OK,” I say.  
  
He considers me a little while longer. In the end, he just says, “Hm.” Then he walks back to his chair and picks up a book.  
  
I take the hint, although it seems he is genuinely indifferent to my presence.  
  
“I’d better to go home,” I say.  
  
He doesn’t look up when he answers, “Yes.”  
  
Seeing as how he appears to be in no hurry for me to go, I visit the bathroom first to sort my face out and recover some calm. It is with a sense of closure that I re-enter the sitting room. I am beginning to wonder how much longer he is willing to tolerate me in his life, at which point he is going to dismiss me altogether as an emotional inconvenience. I have the odd feeling that this might well be the last time I visit Baker Street.  
  
“Sherlock,” I say.  
  
He looks up from his book. I take the opportunity to study his face a moment, not knowing when I will get the chance again. Then I say, “Thank you.”  
  
He looks at me curiously for a second, then nods briefly and returns to his book. I let myself out and make my way down the stairs. Before I leave altogether I say thank you to Mrs Hudson, who is in her kitchen, still looking a little worried. Then I make my way outside. It is with a very definitive click that the door of 221B Baker Street closes behind me.  
  
I am not taking a lot of notice of anything on my walk home, far too preoccupied with the events of the evening. It takes me a moment to register the expensive-looking car that is slowly driving along with me and has now come to a stop a little way ahead. A man in a suit gets out and blocks my path, holding the passenger door of the car open. Quietly, he says, “Get into the car, please.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have made the gross assumption in this fic that there are courtyard gardens at the back of the Baker Street properties. Looking on Google Maps, it doesn't look like that is the case. However, Mrs Hudson keeps her bins in the garden, so maybe in their reality there are. In any case, Adri would never have stood a chance of winning if she had had to knock on the front door. So there you go, Sherlock always wins, I just fudged it...


End file.
